


Scenes Ill Lit

by greerwatson



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: Futurefic, M/M, Pantomimes, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-05
Updated: 2011-09-05
Packaged: 2018-05-19 01:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5950798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ralph joins his new ship at Scapa Flow, he discovers that Bunny is stationed at the naval base.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes Ill Lit

It was not until three years later that Ralph ran into Bunny again, when he headed north on the train and took the ferry over to Orkney Mainland to join his latest ship.  It was on patrol when he arrived; and he spent over a week at the naval base at Scapa Flow.  It was a shock—albeit one he hoped did not show—when he heard that unwelcome voice across the mess hall.  Bracing himself, he took the initiative, walked over, and said to Bunny's back, “Never thought I’d run into _you_ here, old chap.”  When the other man turned, he was as handsome as ever; but Ralph was well inoculated by memories of Bridstow.

It was annoying to discover that Bunny either suffered a curious amnesia or thought bygones might be bygones.  At any rate, he made an unequivocal pass later that evening.  Ralph simply smiled, and said he needed to find the temp quarters assigned to him, and no doubt they’d run into each other some time.  It should have been a brush-off; but Bunny had always been impervious to any innuendo but his own.

No doubt there were as many queers on base as anywhere else; but it was a closed society.  What passed for a city on Mainland was, by the standards of the South, no more than a middling-sized town.  Certainly, there was no gay life into which an incomer had _entré_.  Ralph was a known quantity:  he supposed that Bunny was trying to play it safe.  Perhaps it would have worked—had Ralph not been writing weekly screeds to London, where Laurie toiled boringly through paperwork at the ministry.  Knowing how news travels, he took pains to add a few quick, light words in his next letter.  Nothing that wouldn’t pass any censor; yet he knew the reminder of Bunny would cut Laurie deep, the more so since the brief note he’d received the previous year from that Quaker chap organizing the ambulance brigade.

The next few days were irritating.  He drank hail-fellow-well-met with the usual shipload of strangers ashore, and avoided dark corners where Bunny might lurk.  There was nothing to do until the _Hardesty_ returned to port.  When she did, he was aboard and away.

It was a few months later, when they limped back, pumping out the hull behind weeping repairs after running foul of a lurking German sub, that he really got familiar with the base.  Although his job was officially that of radio operator, his experience meant that the skipper tended to delegate to him; and he found himself trying to wangle parts from a purser who seemed to feel they belonged in Stores instead of aboard ship where they were needed.

They were laid up far too long; and, all the time, at the back of his mind, was the dread that another bold Jerry would slip a U-Boat into Scapa Flow and send them all to the bottom of the harbour.  There was talk in the mess—from lips that should have kept mum—of the new defences being built by Eytie P.O.W.s that would keep the subs out for good; and he could only hope that the causeways were finished touter-de-suiter, for the protection was badly needed.

Inevitably, Ralph ran into Bunny.  He politely introduced him to the skipper and mate as an old pal from Bridstow Naval Base, and then pled duty and drifted off.  He missed Laurie, but not enough to stomach Bunny in his bed again.  There was no hope of leave, of course.  Twenty-four hours he could have wangled; but there was nothing to do but sign out a car and drive into Kirkwall to admire St Magnus’s Cathedral, or find a guide book to the ancient monuments that littered the local fields.  His interest had always tended to Geography rather than History.  Young Ransom, the mate, suggested the pair of them go bird-watching; but Ralph could hardly say that Ornithology wasn’t his field, either.  It would have been ingenuous in the extreme—unless Ransom got the point of the joke, which couldn’t be risked.  So he spent a few evenings chatting up Wrens.  None of this made its way into his letters to Laurie.

In mid December, the _Hardesty_ still was not seaworthy.  The ferry arrived with a letter from Laurie in the post.  Between the lines, Ralph could read that the Ministry would be operating a skeleton staff over the holiday.   _“I’m expected at the vicarage,”_ Laurie wrote.   _“I can see no way out.  It will be awkward, of course; but it will be good to see my mother.”_

Ralph took a few hours to scour the centre of town.  There were a few suitable books in a second hand shop; and he picked one with care, wrapped it, and sent it south—an unexceptionable gift that no one would wonder at.

He returned from the post office to learn that the commander had decreed Christmas festivities for the sake of morale.  A sheet was posted for volunteers.  The more forward had already begun to offer their party turns; and someone had suggested the inevitable skit, no doubt with the usual rude jokes and local colour.  Partway down the page, he saw that Bunny had suggested they put on a panto. 

It was, of course, traditional Christmas entertainment.  Ralph might have reservations about the other man's motivation—Bunny did like the limelight—but the following day there was an immediate brightening among those who fancied taking the stage.  The engineer from the _Tavistock_ offered his skills at improvising lighting; two of the Wrens said they’d help with costumes; and young Ransom declared he was a dab hand with paints if anyone was needed to work on scenery.  The party turns already volunteered would, of course, all be worked in.  Even the chap with the skit said he'd scrap his efforts, work on the play, and tuck his jokes in suitable places. 

Bunny was so bright with _his_ suggestions that, unanimously, he was put in charge.  He promptly put it to a vote, and got them to decide on _Aladdin_.  “Auditions will be tomorrow!” he declared.  Another sheet of paper was produced and posted. 

Ralph did not sign up. 

Over the next few days, though, he had to admit that—at least in the context of work (though never in his personal life)—organization was Bunny’s forte.  His personal powers of persuasion were enormous and, in tandem with the commander’s _fiat_ , produced paint and canvas, odd lengths of wood, batteries, light bulbs, and wiring.  The limited civilian wardrobes of all on base were ransacked for summer clothes that might somehow serve as Eastern garb.  A pre-war silk frock was sacrificed to make bloomers for the genie; and sequins were ruthlessly ripped from an evening purse to spangle a scarf as long as a movie star’s.  The amateur improvisation was matched only by the enthusiasm.  It all reminded Ralph strongly of a lower school play.  However, with all the Wrens on base, there was no need to pick a pretty boy to play the princess.  Bunny selected a girl who could act with moderate flair.  Aladdin was an ensign with some RADA training.  Then, for one awful moment, Bunny seemed to be hinting that Ralph should play the dame.  Ralph was unsure whether he was serious, or joking, or planning some subtle revenge.  It was in self defence, therefore, that he offered his services instead to the _Tavistock_ ’s engineer.  Stifling memory, he helped to contrive lighting that was remarkably effective, given the short notice. 

He was careful never to be alone in the improvised lighting booth.  Once bitten, forever shy:  Bunny seemed to be everywhere.

The dress rehearsal was a disaster.  Aladdin assured them all that this betokened great success on the night.  Or nights:  it took three performances to seat all who came, accommodating to the shifts, which still had to be kept.  (There _was_ a war on.)  It was an audience easy to please, given the time and place; but the cast still gave it their all.  The jokes from the skit raised laughter and eyebrows; the songs were more or less in tune; the girls were pretty in civvies.  The wicked uncle was booed; the lovers’ kiss applauded.

After Christmas, Ralph wrote to Laurie.  As he put pen to paper, he decided that the less he spoke of Bunny the better.  Nor, somehow, did lighting booths seem an appropiate topic for humour.  So, on the matter of the pantomime, the letter was strangely uninformative—but Laurie knew too little of the details to notice. 

Some wry comments did find their way into Ralph's next letter to Alec; but, the mail to Burma being what it was, it didn't arrive until weeks later.

**Author's Note:**

> "Scenes Ill Lit" was written for the Spangled Loincloth Challenge (2011 Summer Challenge) on the [maryrenaultfics](http://maryrenaultfics.livejournal.com/) LiveJournal community. There was a dual prompt: "summer clothes" (for those writing stories based on a modern novel) or "spangled loincloth" (for those writing historical fiction), but the added challenge of contriving a way to put "spangled loincloth" in a story about Ralph Lanyon.


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